


Garden Interlude

by WillGirl



Series: Not Their Fathers' Sons [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Family, First Love, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Harry Potter Next Generation, M/M, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Post-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-05 16:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12193098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillGirl/pseuds/WillGirl
Summary: The Malfoys are a close-knit family, so there was no chance of avoiding it for long: Lucius and Narcissa had to be told about their grandson's new boyfriend. The confession does not go quite as either boy expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there everybody...so I know it's been _quite a while_ since I posted anything...so, sorry about that? I swear I never intended to leave this series hanging here unresolved like this for so long, apologies! Life just got real busy, you know? Anyway...I started thinking about Al and Scor again (blame all of the _Cursed Child_ fanart that's been proliferating lately, and of course, the fact that it suddenly **is** Nineteen Years Later, although I haven't seen or read and have no interest in _Cursed Child_ so don't expect anything from that to creep in here!) and so I had to go back and re-read this all myself! There are a lot of things about this series that I still like, and several other things that I don't -- but rather than waste time going back and rewriting or repairing, I think it's best to just keep pushing forward, and we'll see how things go from here. Anyone still interested?

Albus stepped across the hearth as the flare of green flames flickered and died around him. He looked around the empty, elegant study in which he stood, and frowned. He lifted his wrist to check the watch he wore; he was on time—in fact, a few minutes late, but not enough to worry about, because he was not on a precise schedule. Albus and his boyfriend, Scorpius Malfoy, had nothing in particular planned for the day—but this was the time at which he had promised to arrive, which made it quite uncommon for Scorpius to not be waiting for him.

Knowing that there were only two places that Scorpius was likely to be that would have distracted him enough to make him overlook Albus’s scheduled arrival, he went first to the library—also empty—and then upstairs to the generously-appointed potions lab that the Malfoys had set-up for their precious only child the moment he had expressed an interest in tinkering with that archaic and fascinating magical art. That, too, was empty, and Albus frowned again, deeper this time, and genuinely confused.

Had he somehow gotten the time wrong? Or the date?

Albus knew his way around Malfoy Manor almost as well as its regular inhabitants, by this point; he had spent a considerable portion of each summer since his first year at Hogwarts wandering its elegant, expensive halls in the company first of his best friend and then, more recently, his boyfriend.

They had only been dating for a few months, and had come out to their parents less than a week ago, but Albus felt enough at home in Scorpius’s sprawling estate that he was unselfconscious about wandering through it alone. He wasn’t worried about his reception by Scorpius’s parents, either; they had not only been delighted by the news that he and Scor were dating (because anything that made their beloved and thoroughly-spoiled son happy delighted them both) but also quite unsurprised, having erroneously presumed that the two boys had been an item for ages.

Albus _was_ curious, though; curious about where Scorpius was, and why he had not come to meet Albus. Unfortunately, unlike the homes of his family or any of his other friends, Scorpius’s house was far too large for him to simply shout an announcement of his presence and expect that anyone would hear; he would have to go and find Scorpius himself, if he wanted to see him.

(He could, of course, have summoned a house-elf and requested the elf to either direct him toward “the young master,” or dispatched it with a message to Scorpius, but Albus was not comfortable ordering the Malfoys’ elves around, and preferred to deal with them directly as little as possible when he was visiting.)

Instead he walked, peering into the tastefully-decorated rooms and pacing the luxuriously-carpeted halls, and wondering all the while where Scorpius was—until finally, he walked outside into the gardens, and found him.

For a moment, Albus froze, staring.

Scorpius was sitting on one of the delicate, cushioned stone benches that dotted the sprawling grounds of the Malfoy family’s gardens. Next to him a fountain played delicately and, behind him, exquisitely-arranged foliage stretched away in a pattern that would surely have been aesthetically pleasing if Albus had had eyes for anything but the bone-pale boy hunched in front of them.

Scorpius’s knees were drawn-up and his arms clasped around his shins; his white-blonde head was bowed, his face hidden by the knees he rested his forehead upon. He was dressed in robes—while most younger wizards and witches these days, even those from families as old and traditional as Scorpius’s, preferred to balance their wardrobe between Muggle and magical styles, when he was at home, Scorpius sometimes reverted to outdated modes of dress, especially if he was planning to spend time in the company of his more old-fashioned grandparents—and he looked particularly thin amidst the voluminous blue fabric as it shimmered and waved in the light breeze.

He looked the very picture of misery and loneliness, and Albus’s heart stuttered in his chest at the sight of him.

Gasping one sharp, shuddering breath, Albus lurched forward across the smooth gravel path and staggered to Scorpius’s side. Wrapping his fingers around those pale, skinny wrists where they loosely clasped his knees, Albus sank to the ground in front of the bench and gasped, “Scor—Scorpius, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Horrible fantasies danced in front of Albus’s frantic green eyes. Had he had a row with someone—his mother or father, perhaps? Had it been about Albus? Maybe he had received a nasty letter from one of Albus’s relatives, maybe even a Howler! What if Scorpius’s parents had rescinded their approval of their relationship? What if they had told him that said approval continuing was contingent upon Scorpius agreeing to an arranged marriage with this perfect little pure-blood witch they knew?

Before Albus could descend too far down his spiral of panicked despair, Scorpius lifted his head and met Albus’s green eyes with his own icy gray gaze. His cheeks, Albus noted quickly, were dry, and those eyes were not red-rimmed with tears—but his expression was undeniably distressed.

Scorpius lowered his knees slowly, Albus reluctantly releasing his wrists to allow him to move only because it gave him an excuse to slide onto the bench next to him and slide over close, one hand picking anxiously at the sleeve of Scorpius’s robe as though longing to grab his hand, but uncertain how that would be received at the moment.

“I talked to my grandparents,” Scorpius said. His voice was hollow and Albus’s heart skipped a good half-dozen beats and launched itself up into the back of his throat.

Albus swallowed hard.

“Y-you did?” he stammered. Scorpius, unlike Albus, had two sets of living grandparents, but Albus didn’t have to ask which pair he meant: when Scorpius talked about his mother’s parents, he specified them by name. “My grandparents” only—always—meant the Malfoys.

It was their reaction that Albus had been worrying about the most, out of anyone in Scorpius’s small but tight-knit family. The Greengrasses still held outdated prejudices of their own, they always had, but they had never held those prejudices as _tightly_ as the Malfoys had held theirs; they had never fought or killed on behalf of their bigotry. A Greengrass might well be snide to a Muggle-born if they passed one in a street—but they had never valued blood-status enough to take up masks and marks in order to preserve it. They had never exchanged actual Curses with any of Albus’s relatives.

He could feel himself going tense now despite his best efforts to stay calm and play it cool. He forgot his quest to clutch Scorpius’s hand and slumped back against the bench instead, his hands falling limp against the soft cushion that covered the smooth stone. “How, um…how bad was it?” he asked hesitantly.

Scorpius shook his head, apparently mute with horror.

Tears pricked hot and salty and sharp at Albus’s eyes. He lunged sideways, wrapping both arms around his best friend in a tight hug. “Oh, Scor,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

While Albus had never been close to either set of Scorpius’s grandparents, having spent little time in the company of the elder Malfoys and less with the Greengrasses, he knew that Scorpius adored them, especially Lucius and Narcissa, who lived in the same sprawling manor estate that housed Scorpius and his parents (although since the both of them had developed a love of travel in their old age—possibly because it enabled them to frequent locales where they attracted fewer dark looks and unfriendly mutters than their presence engendered in Wizarding Britain these days—they were not often in residence). Albus found them both intimidating, and was perfectly willing to believe that they had been terrifying once upon a time, when they had served the late and unlamented Lord Voldemort. He was just as happy not to know them better than he did, and he knew for a fact that his parents liked him to spend as little time in their company as possible—knowledge that he knew Scorpius’s father shared, because Albus had overheard his dad explaining that to Draco Malfoy, once upon a time when he and Scorpius had first started hanging out together outside of school.

At the time it had made Albus feel sick and guilty, ashamed and angry all at the same time, but as the years went on he had grown to be glad of it—not because he was afraid of either Lucius or Narcissa, but simply because he didn’t know how to act when he was around them. They were relics of a different world, one that Albus had never known, and one whose rules of behavior he had never learned. He always felt awkward, clumsy, and uncultured when he was around them—but he had forgotten that confessing his and Scorpius’s relationship to their parents would, inevitably, mean eventually confessing it to Lucius and Narcissa as well.

He would not have expected such a conversation to go over well.

Scorpius sighed and said words that Albus was expected even less: “It was mortifying,” he groaned.

Albus blinked. “Mortifying?” he repeated, sure that he must have mis-heard.

“Mortifying,” Scorpius said again, fervently.

“Er…yes?” said Albus.

Scorpius glanced over at him, their faces so close together thanks to Albus’s desperate embrace that their noses almost brushed; he looked startled for a moment, then his pointed face curled in a humorless smile. “Perhaps not as mortifying as when we told _your_ father,” he drawled, “but it came pretty close.”

Albus swallowed. “That’s…” he started to say, but the words trailed away. He frowned, confused. “Kind of unbelievable,” he said instead. “How could it have _possibly_ been even remotely as embarrassing as—that?” He could feel his face going hot again at the memory. He didn’t think that even an expert Obliviator would be able to purge that memory, or the hot rush of horror that came with it, no matter how long he lived.

Scorpius shrugged, and Albus sat back a little so he could see him better, although he kept one arm slung loosely around Scorpius’s sharp shoulders. “It didn’t exactly go as I expected, either,” he said drily.

Albus could only shake his head. “I expect not,” he said earnestly. “I’d have expected…you know…” He flapped a hand helplessly, unable to articulate exactly how he would have expected that conversation to go, but clearly indicating that he wouldn’t have thought it would go _well_.

“Oh, I think I do know,” Scorpius said, his lips thinning. “And don’t mistake me, I’m pretty sure that grandmother was a bit furious, although she tried to hide it—”

“She did?” interrupted Albus. He hadn’t thought that Narcissa Malfoy was the sort of person to hide her feelings, at least not in private; toeing the Ministry’s line in public was one thing, to avoid bringing unwelcome censure and attention to her family, but guarding her tongue among those she trusted seemed out of character, from what Albus knew of the fierce old witch.

Scorpius was nodding, though. “Well, yes,” he said. “She didn’t want to upset me, of course. But I know it upset _her_ , the tow of us being together—she’s a bit…well…” He swallowed.

“Old-fashioned?” Albus said delicately, not wanting to call Scorpius’s doting grandmother a blood-prejudiced bigot to his face, although the entire Wizarding world knew full-well how Narcissa Malfoy _née_ Black felt about blood-purity and what she—and those like her—considered “the Muggle taint” that was destroying the magical world.

At least she wasn’t likely to object Albus on grounds of gender. The fact that he _couldn’t_ have children with Scorpius—thus forever besmirching the noble bloodline with his own less-than-pure genes—would probably be a point in his favor, in Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes. Albus wondered what she would think worse: the end of the line due to lack of heirs, or to a lack of _pure_ heirs.

A faint blush blossomed across Scorpius’s sharp cheekbones. “Yes,” he said, matching Albus’s delicacy with gratitude. “Quite old-fashioned.”

“Frankly,” Albus said, his words as blunt as his tone was gentle, “I’d have thought she’d have been right pissed at the idea of you dating a half-blood.”

Scorpius let out a small bark of laughter. “Yes,” he said again, smiling slightly sheepishly this time, “I’d expected that too.” He shrugged again, ducking his head and giving Albus an apologetic little glance; he knew better than to think that he needed to lie to or sugar-coat things for his best friend, after all these years, but sometimes he lapsed into the habits of avoidance that he used around other people when discussing his family. Albus knew that it wasn’t purposeful, and tried not to take it personally.

“But she…pretended to be okay with us?” he ventured.

Scorpius nodded. “She _does_ like you,” he said insistently. That was an old argument, and not one that Albus was ready to concede; Scorpius had long maintained that his grandmother found Albus charming in spite of his bloodline and family ties, much to her evident annoyance and chagrin, but Albus thought Scorpius was just seeing what he wanted to see—but perhaps he had been wrong.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “if she’s not plotting my death in retaliation for daring to muddy-up her only grandson, I guess she must.”

Scorpius flinched and laughed at the same time. “She’s definitely not plotting your death,” he assured Albus.

“Ah,” said Albus, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly to make sure that Scorpius knew he was joking, “but how would you know?”

“You’re still breathing,” Scorpius retorted, and he didn’t sound like he was joking much at all.

Albus swallowed.

“Right,” he said, a bit shakily, “and…your grandfather? How did he take it?”

He had just been hoping to change the subject a little, but Scorpius moaned and covered his face with both his hands. He leaned back on the bench, resting his pale blond skull against the carved stone back. “Oh, Merlin,” he groaned.

“Er…that bad, then?”

“I _wish_ he’d taken it badly,” Scorpius said, his words muffled by his palms.

Albus frowned. “Sorry?” he said. “Come again?”

Scorpius sighed and uncovered his face. He looked utterly miserable as he turned to stare at Albus. “Grandfather has always been more pragmatic than grandmother,” he said sourly.

“Well…isn’t that good?” Albus asked hesitantly. “I mean…even if he’s not keen on my being a half-blood, the fact that I’m—you know…”

“The son of war heroes?” Scorpius finished for him, voice dry and eyebrow briefly arched in wry amusement. “The son of The Chosen One? The son of a famed Quidditch star? The nephew of—”

“Yeah, okay,” Albus said quickly, flapping his hands to shut Scorpius up, “I get it, famous family, lots of good social connections, blah blah blah—everything he could want in a boyfriend for his only grandson, except for the lineage.”

Scorpius snorted, then the misery settled across his face again. “Yeah,” he said.

Albus started at him for a while. When it became clear that Scorpius wasn’t going to say anything else, he asked, “Okay…so what went wrong?”

Scorpius closed his eyes, grimacing. “Grandfather was… _helpful.”_

“Helpful?” Albus repeated dubiously.

“Well, _he_ thought he was being helpful, anyway,” Scorpius muttered. “Supportive… _informative.”_ He shook his head, his gray eyes uncommonly dark.

“What’s wrong with informative?” Albus asked, worrying although he wasn’t sure why yet.

Scorpius stared at him dully. “Grandfather was very popular in school,” he said, his voice flat. “ _Very_ popular. He was eager to share knowledge that he thought would be…useful, to us.”

Albus blinked once, twice, silently processing Scorpius’s words.

Then, as their only possible meaning sank into his brain, he started to laugh. “Do you mean…” he said, in between growing chuckles, “that your granddad…gave you…a sex talk? A sex-primer talk? A _gay_ sex-primer talk?”

“Yes,” said Scorpius shortly, covering his face again.

Albus howled, clutching his sides as he laughed so hard he nearly shook himself off the bench and onto the gravel and grass beneath. “Oh…Merlin’s…pants!” he gasped.

“It’s not funny,” Scorpius moaned into his palms.

“Are you…kidding?” Albus chortled. “It’s _hilarious!”_

Scorpius lowered his hands enough to turn a very dark glower on the laughing Albus. Unfortunately for him, that only made Al laugh harder. His eyes streamed, his sides ached, his cheeks burned. He started hiccoughing, and didn’t even mind.

“That is…the funniest thing…I’ve heard…all summer!” he gasped.

“I hate you,” said Scorpius. “I never want to see you again.”

“Liar,” chuckled Albus.

Scorpius sniffed and turned his back with great dignity. He tilted his nose into the air, doing an admirable job of pretending that he couldn’t hear the helpless cackling issuing from the tousle-haired boy sharing his bench.

After a while—when Albus had himself somewhat under control, and was wiping his eyes desperately with the cuff of his rolled-up sleeve—he said, without turning around, “Mind you…some of it was _quite_ informative…”

Albus abruptly stopped laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

The middle of the Malfoys’ sprawling gardens was not where Albus had thought he would finally have what remained of his virginity properly done away with, but—he had to admit—it wasn’t an unpleasant setting for the event.

The dainty gazebo that Scorpius had led him to, nuzzled comfortably among a strand of slim trees and thick, flowering bushes, was more like something out of a storybook than from real life. Under other circumstances, Albus would have laughed at it; as it was, he was too distracted by their imminent activities to have cared if they were walking into a circus tent or a Quidditch changing room. All that mattered to him, right at this moment, was that the cushions of the wide benches within were lush and deep, and the grip of Scorpius’s hand—the warmth of his palm off-set by the chill of his silver rings—was tight around his as he pulled him forward into the little round structure.

Albus wasn’t sure if he had ever noticed the gazebo before or not; while he had spent quite a lot of time at the Malfoys’ home over the year, he and Scorpius had only perused the gardens perfunctorily, preferring to devote the majority of their outdoor time to the diminutive Quidditch pitch down the other end of the immaculate lawns. If he had seen it, peeking out through its little strand of concealing trees, he must have immediately forgotten it as not worth paying attention to.

How wrong he had been.

This little gazebo was now Albus’s favorite place in the whole garden.

He lay back on the thick, plush cushion that covered the bench wide enough to be a bed, a pillow crammed under his naked hips to tilt his arse up at a more comfortable angle, his knees pulled back and spread wide, while Scorpius thrust forward inside him.

Albus wasn’t sure if it was due to Scorpius putting the mortifying lessons his grandfather had give him to work, or simply to delayed anticipation, but this shag was even better than the half-completed one that Scorpius had given him in his bedroom five days ago. Maybe it was just because this time, he was fully absorbed in the idea of getting fucked by Scorpius because he _wanted_ to get fucked by Scorpius, not distracted by the thought of showing-up his brother in the process.

Or maybe it all came down to the high quality lube Lucius Malfoy had gifted his grandson with at the end of his lecture.

Whatever the reason, Albus wasn’t going to complain; he would have had a hard time imagining a better feeling than that of having Scorpius moving inside him before today. Now, he couldn’t imagine even imagining anything better.

Albus shivered, feeling like little lightnings were streaming up from his arse, across every inch of his skin, and out from his fingertips in tiny starbursts of pleasure. His head was back, his neck arched, his eyes half-lidded, and his mouth hanging open wantonly as he gasped and panted. “Scor…more, oh Scorpius…oh Merlin…keep going, more, please…oh _please_ , Scor…” His breathless wail was half-coherent at best, but Scorpius didn’t really need to hear the words to know what to do; he pressed forward again and again and again, sheathing himself ever farther inside.

They were both sweating, in the hot summer afternoon and from their desperate exertions, but for once not even Scorpius complained as the salty liquid slid down his pallid face and stung at his eyes. He barely spared the effort to wipe the back of his hand across his cheeks, dashing the sweat away; he needed his hands where they were, braced hard in the soft cushions, shaking slightly with the strain of holding his weight up and back through each thrust and withdraw. He was gasping too, sucking down air in sharp and shuddering gulps, too enthralled to match even Albus’s semi-coherent speech.

There had been a time, a few days ago, when he had thought that he would never know the feeling of being encased in Albus’s beautiful brown arse again; sure that he would never get to touch or taste his beloved boyfriend’s lips or cock or tongue again. This, now, was as much relief as it was desire; as much possessiveness as it was love. Scorpius wanted, so desperately, to do something that would mark Albus forever as his. Lacking that option, he would settle for fucking him until he was so delirious with pleasure that he would never be able to even entertain the idea of separating from Scorpius, no matter _what_ his family said.

He stretched a little, angling himself just a bit lower, and thrust again—and this time instead of just brushing against Albus’s prostrate, he hit it spot-on; or at least he assumed he did from the way that Albus shrieked and convulsed around him, legs coming up off the cushion to wrap around Scorpius and urge him within again, deeper, harder, longer.

Scorpius, of course, obliged.

They bucked and thrust together for what felt, all at once, like hours stretching out around them like the vast expanse of an unending field, and yet at the same time, no time at all; then the building, burning pressure coiling through Albus’s cock surged up within him and spilled out, all at once, across him, Scorpius, the cushion—one long, sputtering, white-hot stream of bliss that sent Albus’s eyes rolling back in his head and his arse clenching tight around Scorpius’s throbbing cock.

Scorpius gasped, and shuddered, and his arms slipped; he dropped from palms to elbows, landing heavily—awkwardly—on Albus’s cum-smeared torso, knocking the breath out of both of them. Albus gulped and shivered, the last of his orgasm-shakes giving way to laughter, as Scorpius pulled back, his face stricken.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he panted, while Albus reached out to draw him back in.

“Hey—come back, you’re not done yet—”

Scorpius shook his head. “No, it—” He swallowed, his teeth baring in a brief grimace of concentration and control as he forced his stiff and desperate cock back out of that blissful tightness. “It’s not…fun for the…the one getting shagged, after…he’s finished,” he panted. “Grandfather told me—”

“Well come here then,” Albus said, rolling up onto his side and getting his tired, trembling legs under him so he could sit upright and draw Scorpius over into his sticky, limply satisfied lap. He slid one hand around the back of Scorpius’s waist and wrapped them both around his hard, straining cock.

“Ah!” Scorpius gasped, and clutched at Albus with one hand and the cushion with the other, his fingers digging in tight to both cloth and skin alike. Albus didn’t mind the sudden scrape of smooth nails across his shoulder; he grinned, and pulled his hands along the dripping length of Scorpius’s cock, squeezing tight and fast. He was sure that Scorpius had been on the brink of cumming too—and barely a minute later, he was proved right, as Scorpius let out a breathless wail of delight and bucked, hard, in the circle of his arms.

Albus planted a line of kisses down the straining arch of the other boy’s white neck while he shuddered his way through his own hot, heady orgasm before going limp in Albus’s arms. For a moment they just sat there, breathing.

Then Scorpius said, softly and pitiably, “I’m sorry.”

Albus frowned. “Sorry?” he repeated, struggling to shake off the perfect poist-coital bliss that was fogging his thoughts. “Sorry for what?” he asked, utterly bewildered.

“I—I wanted it to be perfect for you,” Scorpius mumbled miserably. “After—after what happened _last_ time, I thought—I wanted—” His breath hiccoughed in his throat, as though he were on the verge of tears.

“Scorpius!” Albus said, “Hey, calm down! What are you talking about?” He squeezed the other boy’s boney shoulders and pulled them apart enough that he could peer at Scorpius’s bowed, bent head. “What about that wasn’t perfect?”

Scorpius didn’t look up. His shoulders moved in a helpless shrug. “I didn’t—I wanted—I didn’t mean to—”

“To what?” said Albus again. “Scor, that was possibly the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me in my life. How was it not perfect?”

Scorpius looked up at last, slowly, meeting Albus’s green-eyed gaze reluctantly. “Well, it…I didn’t…you had to…” He gestured vaguely in the general direction of their two limp cocks and entwined, cum-smeared thighs.

“What, finish you off?” Albus asked, starting to grin. “Yeah, because that was just horrible, right?” He snorted. “Come off it, Scor.”

The blush on Scorpius’s face was fading, but it was only because his cheeks were so pallid naturally that Albus could see the bright pink flare of mortification rise up through the flush of lust. “I just…I should have kept up…”

Albus laughed.

“It’s not a Quidditch match, Scor,” he said, still grinning. “It doesn’t end as soon as one person catches the Snitch. In sex, _everybody_ wins.” He shrugged. “That’s what my mum told me, anyway,” he muttered, suddenly embarrassed at the corny phrasing.

Scorpius raised a dubious eyebrow. “Your mum gave you sex advice?”

“Not—not the way you’re thinking,” Albus said quickly. “She still—she’s avoiding the subject of, er, of us. But she, ah…she gave me ‘The Talk,’ you know, just in brief, like, before school started last year….” His face was heating up quickly. He was sure that the crimson flare of mortification was just as visible on his tanned cheeks, now, as it was on Scorpius’s pasty-white ones. He cleared his throat and muttered, “I guess I know now why just talked about sex in general instead of talking all about _girls_ the whole time.”

Scorpius managed a watery laugh.

“I thought she was just, you know, embarrassed…Merlin knows _I_ was…” Albus grumbled. He sighed, shook his head, and looked back at his boyfriend.

“So, er…better?” he asked.

Scorpius gave him a small smile. “Yes,” he said softly. “Sorry.”

Albus hugged. “You don’t have to apologize to me,” he said. “You really don’t.” Suddenly he laughed and, waggling his eyebrows, added, “Especially not right now!”

Scorpius joined in on the chuckling this time and they lowered themselves back to the cushion, lying side-by-side with their legs laced loosely together. Scorpius snuggled in close against Albus’s chest, despite the sticky feeling of sweat and cum on his skin, and smiled again. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“Yeah, ‘course,” grunted Albus. “Any time. No problem.” After a moment he said, “And, uh—thank you, too. For…you know…” He waved a hand vaguely downward.

Scorpius grinned. “Of course,” he said, and winked. “Any time. No problem.”

Albus kissed him and laughed.

Soon they would have to stand up and make their way up to the manor; would have to figure out the logistics of moving from gazebo to shower without parading, naked and filthy, across the lawns and hallways in full view of Scorpius’s family; would have to decide how much of their clothing to pull on over their sticky limbs and how much to carry; would have to face the task of sending a house-elf down to clean-up after them…

But for now, they could just lie there and be together in this comfortable and secluded little corner of the Malfoys’ immaculate garden.

It was, Albus mused to himself, an _excellent_ gazebo.


End file.
